by Helena Maeve
“Greedy,” Jaime taunted in a voice that said just as much about his state of mind as it did hers.
Imogen didn’t try to deny it. She was beyond heckling anyone, eager for the release Russell’s touch promised. It built up inside her belly, her cunt clenching and releasing around empty air. Russell must’ve felt it, too, because he pulled away gasping, his mouth wet, and sank two thick fingers into Imogen’s pussy before she could protest his dereliction of duty.
Her knee buckled, but Jaime was there to hold her up, laughing—the bastard—against her shoulder like he found her sudden frailty amusing.
“Look at you,” Russell said, wiping a hand across his mouth. “Just about begging for it, aren’t you?”
“Such a little slut,” Jaime muttered, but his voice was fond even if the words were rough. He wasn’t wrong, though. For them, Imogen would go to her knees, bend over—whatever they wanted.
She just couldn’t find the breath to say it when Jaime dropped a hand to stroke her mound. He slid his fingers over skin made slippery with her juices and Russell’s spit, inadvertently brushing Russell’s thumb.
Her breath hitched in her chest, though she knew it wasn’t premeditated and Russell quickly removed his own hand to prevent it happening again. Too quickly, Imogen felt, and she mewled when he pulled his fingers out, depriving her of the sweet sense of fullness that had just taken root inside her belly.
“Oh, fuck you, Espina,” she whined. “Don’t—don’t stop now, what are you stopping for?” Jaime pinched her clit in retribution, but it wasn’t enough. She squirmed against the curve of his stiff length, too far gone to stop pleading now. “Please, come on. I’m—I’m fucking close…”
Jaime couldn’t fill her from this angle, though not for lack of trying. He might’ve been in the torture business, but he didn’t try to deprive her of pleasure if he could help it. Russell was a different animal. His labored breaths gusted against her belly for a few moments before he made up his mind and filled her pussy with his thumb.
Imogen bucked, wound so tight she felt like she could burst any second now and not minding it very much. Jaime was circling her clit with his index, certainly trying to put her over the edge, but Russell—he was still for a long moment before something inside him seemed to unlatch. He rested his cheek against the hollow of her hip, the touch of a finger casting down the cleft of her ass and pressing against her other hole.
“Yes,” she panted, in case Russ was hesitating out of fear of crossing some unwritten boundary. “Yeah, you can—I want.”
Russ didn’t take much more prompting to slip his unlubed finger into her. Sweat and spit, the evidence of her arousal smoothed the passage. And Russ stayed relatively shallow, barely penetrating her down to the second knuckle before withdrawing and repeating the motion in a rhythm all his own.
Her disjointed, anxious pleas had no effect on him, though he must’ve felt her cunt clench tighter and tighter around his thumb.
“You want to come?” Jaime murmured, his voice rough with barely disguised need.
“Y-yeah,” Imogen choked out. “Please let me. Please…” She was still working on the whole waiting for permission thing, so it was just as well that Jaime brought it up rather than relying on her to remember. It was kind, in its way, but the longer he delayed in giving her an answer, the more Imogen began to revise that notion. “Jaime,” she whined, “oh, God, if you don’t stop I’m going to come—” And it would cost her literally nothing unless she begged for him to punish her again, but that wasn’t the point.
Jaime scraped his teeth against her neck and bit out, “Come.”
Pleasure exploded at her core, like a controlled detonation or a star going supernova. Imogen fought to catch her breath, found she couldn’t and decided air really wasn’t all that necessary to her survival. She gave herself over with a raucous cry, digging her fingernails into the meat of Jaime’s forearm as he stroked her through aftershocks so violent they rode her like demons.
He cupped her pussy when her moans became shallow, croaky pleas, as though he felt reluctant to release her.
He wasn’t the only one. Russell removed his hand slowly, rubbing his thumb across her slick opening with an almost reverent touch. Imogen tried to form his name, but it took too much effort, so she gave up the attempt, watching as he scrambled to unzip his pants and draw out his thick, veined cock. He was shaking, too, probably close.
“Fuck me,” Imogen demanded, relieved when the words came out intelligible, if a little slurred.
“What—?” Russ started.
Jaime had heard her too. “You sure?” he asked, turning her a little so he could see her eyes.
Imogen nodded. She felt wrung out and exhausted, but she wanted this so badly she felt close to tears. Jaime had told her about sub space, about the disconnect that came with a particularly trying scene—he’d warned her that it might happen to her. Imogen had denied the possibility until now.
“Okay,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “Okay.”
He procured them a condom—God knows from where—and for a moment Imogen thought he meant to roll it down Russell’s length. No such luck. The condom exchanged hands as she settled first one knee then the other on the couch. She felt like she was floating and knew it was her orgasm making her silly, but it didn’t matter. It felt so good to wrap her fist around Russell’s erection—he was thick but not that thick—and hold him in place as she slid down slow and steady.
Russell sucked in a breath and locked his hips, clearly doing his best to be patient. He had been so good to her, treated her so well. Imogen folded herself into his arms, hiding her face into the crook of his neck where the skin was flushed scarlet and felt hot to the touch.
“What about you?” she felt him ask, the rumble of his voice ricocheting against her own ribcage.
Jaime huffed a breath. “I can watch.”
“You could join,” Russell said and Imogen could only imagine the kind of effort it took to get the words out.
She twisted at the waist, gasping as that changed the angle of Russ’ cock inside her, and caught Jaime’s disbelieving gaze. “He’s right. You could.” The first and last time she’d tried anal sex had been in college and despite the faint thread of discomfort, she remembered being a fan of the unusual sensation.
“I’ll get the lube from upstairs,” Jaime said, stroking himself absently as he watched them.
It thrilled Imogen to know that he was turned on by the sight of them together. It pleased her even more to hear Russell chuckle and say, “Check the bag.”
He’d done his homework when shopping for a night of kinky fun. Imogen kissed him in thanks, flexing her inner muscles around him just to wipe the smirk off his face.
Russ retaliated by grasping at her wrists. “Behave,” he warned and Imogen was too drained, too far gone to protest.
She felt Jaime settle behind her on the couch, the soft blond hairs on his thighs scraping against her hips and knew he was straddling Russell’s hips.
“You like that, don’t you?” she murmured against Russ’ mouth, hoping the taunt wouldn’t carry.
Russ groaned. “Shut it.”
For his sake, for the fragile bond growing between them, Imogen relented. She rolled her hips against the probing touch of fingertips against her other hole, trying to relax. It wasn’t easy. She didn’t seem to have much left in the way of self-control.
Jaime didn’t linger much on the prep. He stretched her with one finger, then two, then Imogen felt something wider and blunter press against her hole, and smothered a gasp against the wide shelf of Russell’s collarbones.
He was gentle. He stroked her hair as Jaime stretched her to the limit of what she felt she could take. It hurt, but pain in and of itself had never crippled Imogen with panic. There was something deliciously illicit about being caught between two men, trapped with nowhere to escape to.
She felt their hands smooth along her shoulder blades, down the subtle dip at the small of
her back and couldn’t say who it was touching her at any given time. She didn’t care. At length, Imogen began to move, rocking back and forth in the five or so inches between their bodies. Occasionally, her calves would scrape against Russell’s slacks or she would feel Jaime drag her back down against his cock and the buttons in his shirt would graze her spine. The thought came to her dimly—they hadn’t even undressed. They were so eager for her that they hadn’t bothered to take their clothes off.
It made her laugh—stiltedly, each puff of air making her more lightheaded than the last.
“What’s funny?” Russ panted against the column of her neck, raking his teeth against her jugular.
Jaime leaned his head on her shoulder, brow damp with sweat and his breaths coming fast now as he chased his release with single-minded purpose. Imogen wanted to brush her fingers through his hair, but she wound up craning her neck and offering her mouth instead, letting Russell watch as she kissed and nibbled at Jaime’s lips.
That was all it took. Jaime pulled away with a hoarse moan, his hips stuttering against her ass as he rode her to completion. Imogen could feel finger-shaped bruises blooming on her hips as he spent himself inside her. A surge of heat sparked at her core, the embers of her need catching flame.
“Fuck,” Jaime gasped. “Fuck, Jesus—”
Imogen touched a hand to his, winding their fingers together. “That’s it,” she cooed. “Feels good, babe?”
He pulled out, shuddering, and slid his fingers inside instead, as though he couldn’t believe how tight she still was. After a few staggered beats, he gripped his cock and entered her again, wheezing for breath.
Imogen jerked forward, into Russell’s open arms, and didn’t try to resist. There was something perverse and exciting about being used like this. And she wasn’t finished yet.
The same thought seemed to cross Jaime’s mind as he interrupted the kisses he was pressing to the wings of her shoulders to ask, “How do you want her?”
Russ thought for a moment. “On her back,” he said. “You can keep her still.”
Imogen grinned against his neck—as if there was any chance she’d try to slip away. She’d let Russ have the illusion of control if it got him off. This was a whole new side of him, nothing like the tentative, sometimes awkward lover who didn’t know where to put his hands and constantly asked if she was okay.
He wrapped an arm around her waist and spilled her onto the couch without preamble, looming over her with broad shoulders and heaving chest.
“You want this off?” he asked, tugging lightly on the chain that bound the nipple clamps together.
Imogen nodded. She could stand to leave them a while longer, but her nipples had gone numb and that was slightly worrying.
“I’ll do it,” Jaime offered, kneeling above her. He had disposed of the condom when she wasn’t looking and removed his pants, but either he hadn’t found time to doff his shirt by the same token or he hadn’t bothered. He seized Imogen’s hands in his, planting a kiss to either palm before folding them under his knees and pinning her down. Apparently when Russell said keep her still, Jaime took that literally.
Imogen was still trying to figure out if she liked that better or worse than when they’d been trying to one-up each other before, when she felt the clamps release abruptly. For a few, breathless seconds, she felt relief. Then pain took the upper hand, licking at her nerve endings like tongues of fire as blood flowed back into abused flesh.
She cried out—for real this time, because it hurt like hell—and nearly bucked Jaime’s hands as he pressed down on her nipples, intensifying the sensation. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Fuck!”
“You’re hurting her,” she heard through the fog of agony and frustration building at her core. Russell sounded panicked.
“It’s normal,” Jaime answered, calmer, whispering that she was doing great and promising that the throbbing would pass.
Imogen bit at her own arm, thinking of animals that chewed their own legs off to escape a trap.
Okay, so maybe that was a little overdramatic. Imogen had suffered worse. She knew how to exhale on the pain, how to focus her attention elsewhere until the worst of it settled into a sort of distant mist at the edges of her awareness, leaving room for something better to preoccupy her—such as the rasp of Russell’s tongue laving her nipples around and between Jaime’s fingers.
“Ah—” Imogen sighed, locking her ankles around his waist. “That’s cheating.”
Russell huffed out a breath, something she thought might’ve been a laugh. It didn’t surprise her to find him willing to put his mouth to any part of Jaime, but for some reason, perhaps because he was caught in the heat of the moment, Jaime didn’t remove his hands for the longest time.
Imogen stared up at him, his pink-flushed face looming above her, and couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing.
At length, Russell curtailed his ministrations in favor of fucking her. It was a welcome trade. Imogen took to it like a fish to water. She was too exhausted to be of much help and with Russell’s hips pressing her down into the couch cushions, she couldn’t get much leverage, but pliant seemed to work for him. He paced himself, leaning all of his weight on her like he’d never done before—something Imogen attributed to his fear of being shoved aside, or, worse, mocked—and pumping his hips with steady, long strokes.
His breaths sped up at one point, but Russell was wholly in control and try as she might, Imogen couldn’t coax him over the edge. She gave up trying when he went completely still and exhaled a long, tightly held breath into the crook of her shoulder.
That alone didn’t drag another orgasm out of Imogen, but feeling his spent cock twitch inside her as he came so quietly that she barely heard him did something to her screwed-up brain, pushing just the right buttons that an accidental brush of his slick shaft against her G-spot was enough to leave her gasping.
She climaxed with an unflattering groan, choking on her own breath while Russ brushed the hair from her face and kissed her tenderly everywhere but on her lips.
He knew his own strength too well to hover in place for long, but Imogen was almost disappointed when he righted himself, one hand holding the condom in place around his flagging erection. She could barely close her own legs, let alone sit up without aid, and mercifully she didn’t have to.
Jaime was very gentle as he helped bring her shaking limbs together. She landed against Russell’s flank, somehow, her cheek on his shoulder while Jaime fetched a glass of water.
There was something simultaneously sweet and hilarious about watching him pad through his opulent domain wearing nothing but a sweat-stained dress shirt that clearly needed to go in the wash. He smiled when he caught her eye. “How do you feel?”
“Exhausted,” Imogen breathed. “Divine.” Both were true.
She seized the offered glass with a shaking hand, miraculously managing to avoid any spillage as she brought it to her lips.
Another glass was held out to Russell, who took it a little stiffly. “Thanks.” Of the three of them, he was the most clothed, but he had yet to tuck himself into his pants and Imogen knew from personal experience that his cock was hard to ignore. The fact that Jaime stared didn’t mean anything.
“Anytime,” Jaime said, winking as he turned on the television.
Imogen nearly choked on her water. Or maybe it does mean something.
“Small sips,” Jaime advised, as cool as a cucumber. “Do you mind if I watch? I’ve gotten in the habit of following the sports news, so…” He sat on the edge of the coffee table, hooking a toe around his boxers to bring them closer.
On screen, the newscasters were discussing the latest Mets loss, another close but irrevocable miss that cost them the playoffs. Imogen tried to follow along, knowing that Russell was a fan, but her eyes kept drooping shut, exhaustion getting the better of her.
“And in other news,” the newscaster said, “the recently dethroned MMA champion Megan Luz was released from
hospital today. Luz was admitted with a dislocated knee following Friday night’s decisive match against newcomer Imogen Dao. Luz declined answering questions, but she made this statement to the press—”
Imogen perked up just as Megan Luz’s face appeared on screen. She was just as composed and stony-faced as Imogen remembered her from the arena. She looked a little pale under the flashes of so many cameras, but even leaning heavily on a pair of crutches she still didn’t seem at all cornered.
“It was a fluke,” she said. “It’s the way of the sport and I accept the defeat for what it was…but I also challenge Dao to fight me again and prove to all her new fans that she’s more than a one trick pony.” Her expression hardened as she stared straight into the camera. “We’ve all seen winners get by on sheer dumb luck.” The image changed back the studio where the pundits themselves seemed to be reeling.
“That’s some fighting talk from Megan Luz, contender for the—”
Jaime shut off the television.
“Did that just happen?” Imogen asked, the air around her as tense as piano wires.
“It did,” Jaime acknowledged.
“She called me a one trick pony? I beat five women and I beat her—” Imogen made to stand, anger sparking in her breast like a flint. “Where does she come off calling it luck?” Maybe it wouldn’t have hurt as much if Luz hadn’t been someone she admired. Part of her felt betrayed, but the rest—the indignant, furious bits—won out. “She wants a fight, I’m going to give her a fight. Don’t even try to stop me, Russ—”
He’d been silent so far, but the touch of his broad palm to her shoulder was enough to put a stopper in her rant.
“You’ll give her a fight,” he agreed. “But it won’t happen tonight or tomorrow, so chill. Enjoy the moment. We’re having pizza, remember?”
Imogen snorted, but Jaime greeted the comment with a wince. “Yeah, about that. Hope you don’t mind delivery?”
“I’ll settle for a sandwich,” Imogen said.
She felt Russell nod. “Me too. I’m starving.”